Although on Sundays when the men had finished feeding cattle, the rest of the afternoon was free—free to oil their leather goods, to wash their duds, to write letters (if they could write), to swamp out the bunkhouse or read the cowboy stories in the magazines they laughed at and secretly believed—still they weren't comfortable in the bunkhouse if George was abroad; he had a queer authority without even knowing it, an ability to upset you, maybe because he so seldom opened his talker and his silence mad you look in upon yourself, on the guilt you always knew was there.